Enter the Sandmen

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Enter the Sandmen Page 8

by William Schlichter


  “Why they placed you in cryostats would be my main concern. Millions of others they trained immediately to combat the Halcary.”

  “I never learned why, but a few others were frozen,” Reynard says.

  “My encounters with the Halcary have been limited, and the Iphigenian Empire fell long ago with only a few stagnant colonies surviving.”

  “None of their records have much information about their civil war,” Reynard says.

  “According to Australia?” Ki-Ton’s normal blank tone looms ominously at Reynard.

  “That’s what she said, but there’s a lot of down time in hyperspace. I’ve read some of those histories for myself.”

  “Smart. Don’t ever rely on the information given by a Nysaean.”

  Before Reynard asks what he meant about his first officer, Doug bursts into the vault followed by JC.

  “You get all the smerth’n treasure?” Doug blurts.

  “Drop it an octave. There could be a random patrol we didn’t have on the schedule.”

  “We inserted Amye into the royal wedding precession,” JC reports.

  “And we have the dowry.” Reynard knows his communication officer is aware of his next task with a word. “Doug.”

  The strawberry blond dips back through the hole in the vault. He runs his hand along the wall of the transporter room. He reaches a point in the wall behind the control console seat. He depresses it and a panel slides up revealing a weapons cache.

  Doug pulls two electric wires from his watch, plugging the leads into the security reader. Reynard peeks over Doug’s shoulder. He has grown to understand only a fraction of the current technology.

  Doug works the node into a receiving socket, and it expands to complete the circuit. He pries off part of the card reader and fishes the second wire inside.

  “Couldn’t you just jack into the system and tell the lock to open?”

  “If I wanted to leave a cybernetic trace pattern. The palace security system records all attempts to use the entry cards.”

  “Even if you use a fake, they’ll know someone was there.”

  “It can be tricked, but they’ll still have time and location,” Doug explains.

  “Anyone monitoring will know someone opened this weapons locker,” Ki-Ton confirms.

  “Even if they don’t smerth’n know who. I’m bypassing.”

  “Looks like you’re earning back your parole fees.”

  Click.

  The locker door opens.

  “Reach in and take the rifles. But don’t hit the wires,” Doug warns.

  Reynard carefully pulls out a rifle and hands it to JC. “Will their own weapons set off the security alarms?”

  “Fine time to ask.” JC passes the first rifle to Ki-Ton, before accepting a second and a third.

  “We couldn’t stroll around with our own energy weapons because they would be detected. Every guard patrolling the palace would activate the alarms. So whatever frequency modulation these weapons heat plasma bolts to shouldn’t set off an alarm.”

  “An operation like this should have taken weeks to plan.” Ki-Ton inspects his new rifle.

  “I think we’re doing pretty good for only a few hours of off-the-cuff research.” Reynard pulls out a fourth rifle and slings it over his shoulder. He removes a fifth to carry.

  Doug closes the door. Taking in a deep breath, he holds it in. He touches his watch on his right arm, and the wires snip free. When no alarms trip, he allows himself to breathe again. He grabs one of the two rifles JC holds and activates the power source.

  Reynard flips his rifle e-clip on. “All we do now is get into position, avoid the guards and wait for Amye.”

  BEFORE HER IN all magnificent splendors the wedding precession awaits. As each person or group of people exits the hall into the actual cathedral where the wedding ceremony takes place, trumpets blare to announce them. Music invites, and clapping emanates. Amye witnesses many brilliant costumed aliens before her. Many dancers wear jewels and finery of their birth planets. Some items are to be given as gifts.

  Perspiration rolls down her back. If she screws up this mission, she won’t be able to escape the Mokarran. Once again, she’s the linchpin of Reynard’s plan. No one has ever put faith into her before. He holds her in high regard; no one has done that since she was fifteen and then…

  She pushes the memory from her mind.

  She doesn’t want to remember.

  Amye won’t fail. Nerves are normal. She takes in a deep breath. Having trained under a Calthos warrior, she knows how to reach a state of calm. Being calm will prevent her from revealing her fraud. She keeps a firm grip on her bouquet. Her group of flower girls waits as jugglers balance and toss metallic balls from their heads to their hands and off their feet.

  Riders of some wingless avian trot forward wearing the finest of silk garments. They draw golden sabers with yellow diamonds in the hilts.

  Bead-covered dancers shake and clack the beads together, creating a rhythm with their movements and waves of rainbow light deigns to awe the spectators. The claps never cease. The applause increases as new performers enter, displaying their beauty, gifts, or talents. The precession halts. This gives the crowd moments to take in the entire splendor.

  A wall panel drops into the floor, revealing a fully body-armored contingent of warriors painted in the royal court colors. Interrupting the parade, they march forward, each with a long-barreled rifle with a circumference large enough to eject a basketball.

  Once they have disappeared before the procession and the crowd’s applause lulls, masked acrobatic dancers with ribbons trailing their costumes vault forward in a dazzling display of twirling colors.

  Amye forces a tear back down its duct. She realizes this grand spectacle is all for one person to have the most monumental of ceremonies to celebrate a day she most likely has been preparing for since birth. The princess, about to be united in matrimony and assume the throne of her planet, is behind her in the parade line and will never witness what those in attendance see. Dignitaries from across the galaxy will speak at dinner functions of this event for a decade, and the princess won’t get to enjoy a single moment of it.

  Amye’s not sure she ever wanted to marry. Kymberlynn talked of having a regal ceremony when she met the right man, but even she wanted to be the first pilot to…Amye doesn’t remember. Why can’t she remember what her sister wanted to accomplish?

  More tumblers and dancers vested in jeweled costumes venture forth to the cheers of the crowd.

  The herald guides Amye and her group of flower bearers to take a single step forward toward the door. A second group of battle-armored warriors step from the side chamber. They are metallic black in color, and around their necks hang the Aurora Medal of Valor. These men have all served their planet in the highest of distinctions. They march forward.

  The cheers and claps instantly halt.

  Amye notes that within the perfect formation of soldiers, one man is missing.

  The herald waves the flower bearers forward a single step.

  Dozens of diapered children are ushered in and run out of the chamber dropping flower petals as they joyously scream forward.

  Four men carry a steaming cauldron between them. Amye has no idea why. The herald waves the flower bearers forward. A wedding dirge plays, and the thousands of guests stand in unison. Amye keeps her eyes forward. As they march over a bridge built to a dais in the center of a lake surrounded by fountains, along the outer walls the spectators remain at quiet attention.

  The Medal of Valor recipients line each side of the bridge, and on Amye’s right they leave a gap in their formation the width of one man to signify those lost in combat. After the distinguished warriors are set in place, royal guards hold their weapons ready to fire in the air. Amye spots the diapered children, now out of flower petals, disappearing down a hidden ramp just before the dais.

  On the spiral-stepped platform the future husband-king waits before the presider of the ceremony. T
he prince has more metals and honor cords than most battalions earn.

  Amye wonders whether this man has even fired a weapon.

  Mokarran bodyguards sporting black sashes across their naked metallic gray chests have medals as well. A kneeling chair that looks more like a torture contraption awaits the princess. Before the flower bearers reach the hidden ramp and the last child disappears in the hole, the ramp raises.

  She steps into the brightly illuminated walkway leading to a dais in the center of a pool of spurting fountains. Amye quickly surveys her surroundings.

  The four men carrying the cauldron halt near the end of the bridge. They pour molten gold from the vessel onto the walkway all the way up the steps to the bride’s place next to her husband. Steamy liquid splashes down each step.

  Amye moves her foot to glance at the underside of her heel. She knew they felt heavy, but she figured that was a part of the costume. Now she realizes the metal sole prevents the heat of the gold from melting them.

  All the flower bearers promenade in union. Amye matches their steps as they proceed forward on the bridge. Amye and the other flower bearers march around the body ring of the dais and spin around in unison brandishing the bouquets.

  Thousands of flame-orange birds are released and flutter to the ceiling of the stadium-sized cathedral roof. Amye had no idea this place was as big as it is. The long peacock tails flutter in waves of orange. Freedom is what they seek.

  Amye smiles, Did they all have a chance to crap before they took flight?

  Cannons fire.

  Amye resists the urge to glance back and consternates on keeping in step. The heat warms her as she steps through the molten gold.

  At least Doug got the right girl. Amye thinks as she considers she is mere feet from where the princess will kneel before her soon-to-be husband-king.

  She has the vantage point to witness the grand entrance of the princess. Hoisted on a litter of golden silk she’s carried by the most muscular-shaped men. Amye won’t admire them as on the left side of the litter is an oiled Lieutenant Beers. The litter reaches the molten gold. Two litter bearers raise their hands to take the princess’s arms and lower her to the bridge. The white silken layered robes of her gown stop at her ankles to reveal her exposed painted toes. Amye stares at the young brunette with lilies woven into her hair, gulping as she steps forward. Her foot sinks into the gold. She takes the next dainty step with no hint of pain. It has to be warm still or she wouldn’t sink.

  If Australia were here she could explain the cultural significance of forcing this poor pasty-skinned girl, whose feet have never touched dirt, to trudge through molten hot gold. Something has to have been mixed in with the gold to prevent it from burning her toes.

  The princess reaches the top of the steps and kneels before her future husband.

  The ramp leading below the dais lowers.

  The wedding guests sit.

  Before the litter bearers exit and the vows are exchanged, Reynard and Doug open fire from the ramp. The crowd scatters in screams of terror. Plasma bolts shear through the ceiling, raining orange birds onto the bridge. JC flings a rifle at Scott, who shoves another litter bearer into the water in order to catch the weapon.

  Scott dives for the floor as he fires over his crewmates, blowing off half of the facial hammer of a Mokarran.

  Doug and Reynard fire into the air, scattering all the guests and the flower girls. Even the armored warriors—with only simple ceremonial weapons—scurry to the exit.

  Amye uses the distraction to grab the princess and drag her toward the open ramp. Confused, the prince considers the strange display as part of the ceremony as he reaches for his bride. Before he touches her, his bodyguards shuffle him away from the dais.

  Amye flings the tiny girl over her shoulder and drops down the ramp. With the royal out of the way Scott unleashes beam after beam of plasma at the Mokarran as he dives for the ramp. He slides forward into a shoulder roll in order to pop up on his feet.

  JC slams her fist into the ramp raise button.

  The princess screams and thrashes about on Amye’s shoulder. She might be able to escape if not for the layers of fabric. Amye would be throwing a tantrum too if she had just been stolen away while her grand wedding day was shot up by a bunch of thugs.

  Where’s Ki-Ton? Do something about her screams! Scott, are you stupid? “You fired a shot at the princess!” Arguments and yelling ensue all at once around her, and all she wants is a blaster and for the high-pitched screams to cease in her ear.

  The ramp lumbers into place above them. JC blasts the controls in an attempt to prevent it from being lowered on their position.

  “A little help here,” Amye demands.

  JC touches the princess’s forehead with the single command, sleep.

  The petite girl goes limp.

  “She’s only five foot. I blasted the Mokarran three feet taller. No chance of me missing. And he was reaching for something,” Scott defends his action.

  “We’ll discuss it later,” Reynard snaps. “Where’s Ki-Ton?”

  “I heard blaster fire from behind me. He must have driven guards back from this corridor.”

  “We’ve a smerth’n problem.” Doug beats on a door. The metal clangs. “They have dropped emergency blast doors to the transporter room.” He takes a handheld computer from his belt, waving it in the air.

  “Australia’s fully capable of operating the transporter,” Scott suggests.

  “No smerth’n way! They’ve activated inhibitor shields.”

  “Beaming through those would be like being reassembled through a salad grater.”

  “I get it.” Reynard has no idea how to get his crew out, but he won’t let them know it. “Find defensive positions!”

  Scott checks his rifle’s energy clip, as does Reynard.

  He shakes his head in a silent answer. Reynard and Doug both fired recklessly to scatter the crowd with no regard for ammo, expecting to drop down the ramp and transport away.

  Doug raises his rifle and fires. A small box built into the wall crumbles into a rain of sparks and burning plastic. He glances back at his computer.

  “They’re localized inhibitor stations. Not one big shield generator,” he explains.

  Amye cuts off his lengthy explanation. “We get it. Shoot enough of those emitters in a given area and we’ve a safe transporter window.”

  “Guards are coming,” JC reports.

  “How many?”

  “Too far away to detect individual minds. If I had to guess—all of them.”

  Reynard trots down the corridor to a branch on the left. “Move! Scott, cover us.”

  He attempts to open every door as he passes. Weaponless, Amye stays on his heels, never losing her grip on the princess. Rifle fire behind him incinerates another transporter inhibitor.

  “These things are hidden all over.”

  Reynard guesses they don’t have the time to find them all. He doesn’t understand why they haven’t been overrun by guards by now. He would think there would be hundreds flooding the corridors, and with every door secured they are left vulnerable in the corridor.

  “They must not want to risk hurting the princess in a crossfire.”

  Amye answers, “It’s the only reason we aren’t being overrun.”

  The corridor splits. Dead royal soldiers litter the carpet. Amye draws one of the dead soldiers’ sidearm, more comfortable with a pistol in these cramped corridors over a rifle. “We’d better get out of here quick. With dead palace guards, the Mokarran will force the queen to turn us over, and the Mokarran don’t keep prisoners.”

  “Find a way past the transporter inhibitors and we’re gone.” Reynard ignores the dead men.

  Amye spins around and yanks the handheld computer from Doug’s hand. “Hold her.” She drops the limp princess from her shoulder into Doug’s unprepared arms. The ninety-pound girl sends him to the floor with mounds of white ruffle dress on top of him.

  “Amye, what the hell!�


  She ignores Doug as she types commands into the device.

  Scott scoops up the unconscious girl as JC pulls Doug to his feet.

  Amye hands the computer to Reynard. “That area has the weakest inhibitor distortion. Blow one of the field generators there and to open a hole.” She flips the princess back onto her shoulder.

  Reynard marches down the corridor device in hand and rifle ready. Amye follows close on his heels. She keeps the princess between them so Reynard assumes the role of plasma stopper over the valued royal.

  Explosions send them tumbling back. A deafening ring destroys Reynard’s equilibrium as smoke and debris cloud his vision. He crawls off, reaching his hand for the rifle. As his outstretched fingers touch the weapon, a sable boot pins the weapon to the floor.

  He glances at Harbuu who speaks at a frequency he’s no longer able to process. She flips open a hand fan in each palm pointing the razor-edged blades at the commander. The sharp sting of knives burns across his chest as he lunges at the vixen. She uses Reynard’s own mass and momentum against him, sending him back to the floor in a disconcerting thud.

  Before he recovers Amye points her blaster at the Calthos female only to find a fan blade lodged into the barrel. She discards the weapon along with the fan. Amye draws into a defensive stance Joe taught her. She gets in a solid punch to Harbuu’s chest, leaving the indentions of the chain-mail bra on her fingers. Amye blocks a retaliatory blow, but before she lands a second hit Scott slides between them. He takes the brunt of Harbuu’s blow meant to kill.

  This allows Amye to kick the hand drilling fan blades into Scott’s lower right abdomen. What could only be a galvanized poker shreds his insides. A thousand hot needles cut into him; blood and chunks of meat spray from the hole covering Amye. She forces herself to swing again. Frantic to stop the warrior, she knows the punch has no control. As pain washes over her, she has lost all of Joe’s training. Instinct takes over, but Harbuu easily blocks the blow and counteracts it by thumping Amye’s head, sending her to the floor.

 

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